


subsumed piece by piece

by Anonymous



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Falling In Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insecurity, M/M, Masturbation, Panic Attacks, Pre-Relationship, Suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, hypermasculinity, i wrote this while i was emotionally compromised, toxic masculinity, venting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 09:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14257494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Something happens that was never meant to, and the team must deal with the fallout.





	subsumed piece by piece

**Author's Note:**

> AU: Following the season 2 finale, Shiro doesn’t go missing. Instead, four days after the battle, Keith finds him dead.
> 
> Author’s note: This was extremely painful to write. I cried several times while doing so, and often had to abandon it for days. However, that being said, it was a very cathartic experience and I’m glad I finished it. This draws from very personal experiences, and in some ways this is my own story. I’ve struggled with suicide ideation and mental illness for many years, and have had close friends die from suicide. Please mind the tags. I tried to be as respectful as possible with regards to the subject matter, but I want it to be stated that the characters I am portraying here are flawed-- they neither grasp every minute detail or need-to-know thing about mental illness nor do they have experience in how to properly assist those with mental illness. They make mistakes. They are confused, hurt, and angry. I tried to make this as respectful as possible, while also maintaining both realism and the integrity of the characters. Despite that, if in any way this story comes across as romanticizing, disrespectful, or problematic, please let me know. Thank you for reading.
> 
> I might end up deleting this later.
> 
>  
> 
> italics: past/memories/dreams
> 
> regular: present

**subsumed, piece by piece**

 

**i.**

_ Shiro hasn’t talked to anyone in three days. Whenever Lance has seen him, Shiro got this look in his eye that was so unnatural it unnerved him. Lance could see the ghosts in those eyes, and he could hear the acidic words that ached underneath Shiro’s tongue, that withered away, lost to the dust, never spoken, but not forgotten. Shiro hasn’t talked to anyone three days, but his eyes and his body communicated more than his words ever could. Lance didn’t know what to do, and that panic was what finally made him feel something.  _

 

_ Shiro hasn’t spoken, Lance hasn’t felt, and the others were somewhere busying themselves, and putting on masks to hide their trembling lips and shaky hands.  _

 

_ Shiro hasn’t been the same. Lance always knew there was a darkness inside of him, that lurked beneath the surface. He had been through too much, suffered too much for there not to be; but he was always--Lance didn’t know how to phrase it-- there. For lack of a better word. He was a presence that wormed his way into your heart and projected an air of calmness, of strength, of wholeness, and safety.  _

 

_ But these last few days, these last few weeks since--Lance didn’t even know he existed. He’s drifted through conversations with quiet murmurs and whispers until eventually he never spoke at all. Lance didn’t know what to do, and he worried that there was nothing he could. _

 

\--

 

Keith was the one who found him. The whole world was quiet, after that. No one spoke to each other anymore. The team didn’t even look at each other. 

 

In the background, underneath the silver and blue and the hum of the Castle’s walls, there was anger, and crying, and confusion, but they couldn't do anything at all. 

 

\--

 

_ “A-are you there?” Keith whispered. _

_ There was a soft hand placed on metal, an ear pressed to the wall,listening for signs of significance, listening for a voice that used to sing through paper-thin plaster _ \--i’m just so tired--i get it, we all are--no, you don’t--

 

_ “I miss you.” _

_ \--Photographs and polaroids of the forgotten were sitting on the floor, and a hand reached out to grab one. In an amber photograph, it seemed like there was nothing wrong  _ \--sit still, would you?--stop it, big shot!--say quiznack!-- _ but it was only the rosy retrospection of someone who wore a mask, to hide from the soft hands who reached for a touch-- _

 

_ “Can you hear me, Shiro?”  _

_ The mementos Shiro's saved were long gone, taken scraping on the floor by children who told themselves they didn’t care about anything at all _ \--i’m sorry, i-it’s just hard to look at--get a hold of yourself!-- _ a pair of gloves, a smile, and the lingering smell of sweat were all that were left to grow dust in the room that was no longer a home-- _

 

_ “Please, do you see me?” _

_ Smoke and shadow seemed to speak of sentences and smirks that were now remembered in sorrow. It seemed when the hand reached out for a touch that it could almost feel something tangible and loved, but that intangible feeling was gone--  _ and he woke up.

 

-

 

Lance was lost. He could hear screaming through the walls in the middle of the night, and he knew it was Keith. But he couldn’t make himself go and do something. 

 

Instead he took his pillow and shoved it over his ears. He told himself that the screaming wasn’t real and that he wasn’t real and that nothing happened--

 

He told himself the sounds in the Castle were just an orchestra in his head: the constant humming was the harp, the tap tap tap of Allura’s footsteps was piano keys, and the screaming was only the violin.

 

-

 

_ “You know, Keith, people have always told me the way I should be feeling. I should be happy. Or sad. Or angry or whatever. _

 

_ “Shouldn’t you be happy, Shiro? Shouldn’t you be feeling down, Shiro? So please. Don’t do this to me too.” _

 

-

 

They all had different ways of dealing with things. Hunk baked, in more ways than one. Keith fought. Pidge didn’t eat. Allura threw herself into her work. Coran never left his room. 

 

But Lance, Lance floated between the sights of memories and the sounds of the present. He couldn’t make jokes anymore. He didn’t know who he was anymore or what anything meant. He’d never felt more useless than he had now. 

 

He wanted to talk to someone. Lance always had millions of things to say, but those millions of things were lost to the strained and living silence that chained them all. 

 

This wasn't working. This grief swallowed them whole, and they needed to climb out of the abyss. But choked breathing, wet coughing, and metal crumpling were sounds that became staples of the Castle. In a strange way, it felt like without them, the tenuous nothing--the idea that they were somehow still whole-- would crumble and fall. 

 

But instead of worrying about these things he didn’t and couldn’t understand, Lance watched a little beetle crawl its way across the floor. He wondered, absently, what it would be like to be so small. But at the same time, he thought he might already know. 

 

-

 

_ The team was used to Shiro’s moments. Sometimes, when things got hard, when something reminded him of stuff he claimed was better left forgotten, he would freeze for days on end. It was difficult at first. All of them were so green, so rough around the edges, and naive; they were children made to fight a war they didn’t even know was happening just a few months ago.  _

 

_ They knew Shiro felt guilty, and he felt that the war was his burden to bear, and that he should protect them. But he forgot to protect himself.  _

 

_ Sometimes, being around Shiro was like a dance. When he had his flashbacks, his nightmares, his moments, the team had to take care of him. Keith, his almost brother, was so hard to read at these times; his face was stoic, and only his body language betrayed that he felt strain. But Lance heard late at night the crying that Keith tried to hide.  _

 

_ When Shiro woke up from his moments he was always angry and bitter and spiteful and the team never knew what to do. It could take minutes or hours or days, but he always returned to himself in the end, sheepish smiles and apologies and became the man they all knew and loved; the man who never hesitated to claim that lasers blam-ed and supported the team whenever they needed to. Until, he didn't. _

 

_ This war was hard enough for all of them-- but maybe, Lance thought, it was hardest for Shiro. _

 

_ \-- _

 

Keith slammed Lance against the wall and thrust his forearm against Lance’s throat. Lance didn’t even know what happened, all of the sudden he just couldn’t breathe. Lance’s head smacked against the wall, and he felt the pain reverbate down his spine like electricity. 

 

His eyes were half open and dazed, the world was so foggy around him. Was Keith saying something to him? He furrowed his brows. Pretty boy. Keith. Huh. Lance was really out of it. 

 

Keith’s face was distorted and swimming. But Lance just focused on this one black strand of hair that got into his eyes, and wondered how he could stand it. Lance giggled. Hair is weird. Keith was mouthing something at him angrily. He shook Lance by the shoulders and got so close to Lance that he could feel Keith’s furious puffs of breath. 

 

“--Are you even listening to me?” Keith shouted at him. 

 

Huh, his ears could work again. That was weird. He didn’t respond, and his head just lulled to the side. Keith let go of him, and Lance fell to the ground. He didn’t remember much after that. 

 

When he woke up next, his head ached but his vision was clearer. He hadn’t moved from his crumpled position on the ground. Keith was nowhere to be found. Lance almost thought he had imagined the whole thing, but the pain in his head and the bruises on his skin told him otherwise. He didn’t move-- in this moment, he was nothing more than a pile of limbs, or a bag of bones.

 

Hunk found him later, staring off into nothingness with tears dripping off his chin. Hunk bent down and put his hand on Lance’s shoulder.

 

“Come on, buddy, you gotta get up.”

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

“Lance,  _ please.”  _

 

“I-I can’t.”

 

-

 

_ Shiro touched Lance’s arm. The whole team laid next to each other, their backs on beds of flowers, and their eyes facing the stars. Shiro couldn’t name them, as these constellations were unfamiliar to him. But the whole team thought it’d be fun to make up their own stories of these stranger stars. _

 

_ Shiro gestured at the sky and claimed that it looked like a sword. Lance said it looked more like a dick. Pidge laughed, her voice twinkling like the stars. Lance saw Shiro frown out of his peripheral vision but the corners of his mouth hinted at barely concealed amusement. _

 

_ Shiro said, “I don’t think anyone experiences the world the way you do, Lance.”  _

 

_ Lance stuck out his tongue.  _

 

_ They turned back towards the sky. Together, they all laid there with only the orchestra of slowed breath and the rustle of petals in the wind to allay the silence. _

 

_ - _

 

Keith was angry at Lance. Keith was angry because Lance was  _ pretending _ . He didn’t grieve for  _ Shiro _ , for Keith’s almost brother- the man who was born on a February 29th, so he technically was only six years old (something Keith never failed to make fun of), the man who ate peanut butter and banana sandwiches, who used to watch  _ I Love Lucy, The Brady Bunch, and Seinfeld _ in the evenings after work, who cried during the Zuko and Iroh reunion scene, and drank beer out of soup bowls; he grieved for  Shiro, the star pilot, the unshakable leader, the stoic ideal man--an image of Shiro that never existed, and that’s what hurt him the most. 

 

Keith, tipsy and no really longer conscious of his turmoil, for some reason, thought of  _ The Persistence of Memory  _ by Salvador Dalí. It was Shiro’s favorite painting. Shiro told him that he thought it represented the fact that our memories may not always capture what has really happened, and that maybe our reality and what we remember may not be what it seems. 

 

Keith worried, absently, distantly, that he wouldn’t remember Shiro for who he was, and he would just become like the rest of the team. They said time healed all wounds, but mostly, Keith thought it made you forget the painful details; and that ignorance made you forgive. But Keith couldn’t forgive Shiro for leaving him behind, or forgive the team for being. To him, forgiveness is giving a part of yourself away for others to have power over.  

Keith will not let himself forgive or forget; he could remember the dirt and grime, he could see the lies melting off of Shiro’s lips-- _ i want you to lead voltron _ \-- _ calm down, hot shot, we’ll all live to see tomorrow-- _ it all felt so clear, but even so, it was only a reconstruction.  

 

Keith wondered what the truth was anymore. He wondered if he was even real. Dali once said, “ _ The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant.” _  We are nothing but the sum of our memories; but what does that say about him, when all his were false?  

Keith wasn’t really angry at Lance. He was angry at himself. It seemed that no one had known who Shiro really was, not even Keith.

 

-

 

_ “What would be your definition of beauty, though? If you had one,” Keith asked. _

 

_ “I would have to say this field, these flowers. Plants as a whole. Even weeds. Buuuut probably you guys too.”  _

 

_ “Aw, Dad!” Hunk and Lance cried from little ways away. Shiro rolled his eyes fondly. Keith hadn’t even known they were listening.  _

 

_ Keith grew warm, and he said, “Why? I get the aesthetic, but plants don’t do much and half of them are ugly as fuck.”  _

 

_ Shiro turned his head towards Keith and looked past him, a smile on his lips, and didn’t answer. Keith went to punch him in the arm for being so cryptic, but he had begun to crumble, leaving stardust on Keith’s fingertips.  _

 

_ He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. Dead _ . He’s--

 

-

 

“Hunk, could you stay?”

 

“Of course, Lance.”

 

Lance woke up with his head on Hunk’s chest. Beneath him, he could feel the steady rise and fall of Hunk’s ribs and hear the soft puffs of breath that escaped his mouth. They were in Hunk’s room. He’d decorated it so it was an eclectic blend of technological bits and colorful crafts. Hunk was a very talented artist; it was something he loved to do whenever he had the time. Half finished works and space paint tubes were strewn around, and electrical wires made their home underneath the bed and dispersed on the desk. Overall, the room was very much Hunk. 

 

Distantly, Lance could hear the whimpering that had become a staple in the Castle. The metal walls were so thin, every sound reverberated through the Castle. He sighed heavily as he traced circles into Hunk’s chest. 

 

He tried to untangle himself from Hunk as easily as possible without waking him up. He pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed wearily. After a moment, Lance got up and moved to the door, tripping over paint cans and wincing with every noise. 

 

Lance didn’t know how Hunk lived in this mess perpetually. Pidge was even worse, especially now. Lance had always kept a clean room, if not for himself but for his mother. 

 

Lance left Hunk’s room, and ventured into the hallway. 

 

-

 

Keith was crying.

 

“Lance, I-I’m sorry--”

 

“It’s okay--”

 

“It isn’t. I-I hurt you.”

 

“Hurt people hurt people, but hurt people only hurt themselves more.”

 

“Lance--”

 

“We’re in this together, okay?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

-

 

_ Shiro’s skin was so cold. He was so cold. His neck strained as he writhed and twisted in the shackles of his sheets. They gripped his body, drowning him in cotton. _

 

_ He didn’t know where he was and he was afraid, and all he could feel was the ghost of a breath on his neck and cotton sheets in every pore. The more trapped he felt, the more his mind filled with ghosts and dead people. But when he finally freed herself and stumbled towards the glass paned window, his breath rasping and frantic, everything went blank.  _

 

_ Shiro’s fan caused the peony-like flowers he’d saved to sway. The night was calm; the peonies had begun to dance underneath the starlight, in a duet with the breeze of the fan. The image of them was haunting. He felt so angry; he was so angry; he was blinded by it. He gripped the the planter of peonies and threw it far, far away. Maybe then he could forget. But why then, did he feel so cold? _

 

_ - _

 

After two weeks, Allura called them down to have a team meeting. She said over the intercom that they needed to start working again. 

 

“Now that Shiro is… gone, we need to start looking for a replacement for the Black Lion.” 

 

Lance didn’t react. The statement made everything too real. But Keith wasn’t Lance. 

 

There was screaming. There was yelling. There was crying and it ended with Allura sobbing on the floor like a child, Keith not far behind her. 

 

-

 

_ There were bodies everywhere. They were beneath his feet, their fingers were in his hair, their limbs were in between his legs, touching him, inside of him. There were corpses everywhere and he was drowning in them. He choked on the smell of them, gagged at the taste of their flesh, and cried and cried. He had always known that death surrounded him like an old lover’s tender embrace, or a coat that kept the cold away, or even a deep fog after a rainy night, but this, he never thought of this.  _

 

_ He tried to pull himself free from this sea of bodies and escape their strangling grip, but he only fell deeper. One of them moved, their face suddenly clear and it was Shiro, god it was him, he turned his blank eyes towards him (isn't he dead?) and he called his name, they all started to call his name-- _ and then Lance woke up, hands at his throat and unable to breathe. 

 

-

 

He looked to the ceiling and asked aloud, “Why are you afraid of the dark, Shiro?”

The ghost of a man responded,  _ “because there are more places for monsters to hide.” _

 

“Why are you afraid of the dark?” 

 

_ “because if that's where the monsters are, then i think that's where i belong.” _

 

“Why are you afraid of the light?” 

 

He told himself, ‘there's no place to hide,’ but did not answer out loud. 

 

-

 

_ "You want to know why I think plants are so beautiful?” Shiro asked. _

 

_ It was weeks since that last conversation beneath the moon and the stars. “Of course I do.” _

 

_ He laughed softly, and the sound was almost lost in the breeze. “Flowers aren’t fully wilted when they’re yellow. They might be bruised or broken, but they can burgeon into captivating maturity, despite their harsh beginnings and promise of defect. All it takes is a hand willing to let them. I admire flowers and plants because they can show distress and need without ever making a sound.” _

 

_ Keith don’t know what to say. He didn’t know what it was like to view the world with Shiro’s eyes. He paused for a moment and then said, “Shiro, how can you tell for sure when they’re hurting though?”  _

 

_ He  continued to gaze at the stars, and said carefully, “You don’t have to be able to even see them or hear them to be able to tell. Sometimes you just know.”  _

 

_ Keith should have paid more attention to his words, but in that moment, the only thing on his mind was whether Lance liked flowers too. Lance was his definition of beauty, at least now. He wanted to ask Shiro for advice. He wanted to touch  Lance. He wanted to place his hands on the dips of Lance’s spine, trace constellations in the curves of Lance’s skin. He wanted to give Lance those flowers and maybe even steal Shiro’s words (though he didn’t even understand them), he wanted to kiss his chocolate brown hair, and run his fingertips across his cheekbones. But he didn’t. Instead, he turned away from the both of them, had a single thought nagging at him, “ _ Sometimes you just know.”

 

-

 

It was morning and Keith was on his back staring unseeingly at the heavens. He always wound up in the same place: the field of peony-like flowers and wind, even if it was only a reconstruction in his mind. He closed his eyes. He opened them. Keith saw vaporous entities in the shapes of Shiro’s face and if he looked hard enough he could see his smile, that small smile that could power cities for days on end and be a beacon of light for ships lost at sea.  
  
The mist was crafted with such intricate detail. Keith could see each contour and crease of Shiro’s hand, and it was so very real. Keith felt like if she just reached out he could reach Shiro and hold him close and bring his brother back. And he tried. But while the humidity in the air felt like Shiro’s sweaty palms, it was not the same. This was not real. Shiro was no longer real.

 

“Why are you doing this me, Shiro?” he screamed, hands tangled into his hair and pulling, “Why won't you just let me be?” 

 

Shiro was in every place he looked. He was in the sky. He was in the blades of grass, and in the insects in between. He was in the trees and was the animals rustling in them. He was the stagnant water in the tiger lily pond. Keith saw him in all the places Shiro could never see himself.  

 

“You-you’re dead, and you need to let me go.”  _ I need to let you go. _

 

-

 

_ “Hey, do you think that was a U.F.O.?” Lance asked cheekily, pointing to some random point in the sky.  _

 

_ Shiro deadpanned, “Everything is technically a U.F.O., now.”  _

 

_ Pidge from her position to the left of Shiro, sang the X-Files theme song.  _

 

_ Hunk said, in harmony with Pidge’s awful rendition, “Lance, you were always a dreamer.” _

 

_ Lance smiled at the sky, “Realism is boring, my guy. I want fantasy, immortality, and a cat that barks.” _

 

_ Keith punched him in the arm, “We’re literally in space. Isn’t that enough fantasy for you?” _

 

_ Shiro turned towards Lance, “Well, even if it isn’t a U.F.O. in the traditional sense, something is coming this way.” _

 

_ But when Shiro looked at Lance he was dead and rotting. He was decaying in front of him and all that was left was his eyes, god--  _

 

-

 

“Hey Shiro, do you think that was a U.F.O?” Lance asked to no one. 

 

“I think it was a U.F.O. I want to believe,” he laughed hysterically into the ceiling of his bedroom, “Look there it goes! Maybe it’s a Galra ship? Or maybe it’s dimension crossing Alteans! Oh no, I got it! It’s the Hale-Bopp comet!” 

 

A minute later. “Hey Shiro, is that why you killed yourself? Was it Heaven’s Gate all over again?”

 

“Fucking answer me, Shiro! You’re not actually dead anyway, this is fucking joke right?”

 

“Shiro. please. We need you, Shiro. The team can’t function without you. We need you. I-- fuck.” 

 

-

 

Lance had taken to sleeping in Keith’s room. At first, neither of them acknowledged it, and Lance slept on the floor; later, to be awoken by Keith’s nightmares, or his own. He consoled Keith when he woke tired and afraid, and Keith consoled him. They never woke up alone, which was more comforting than they had ever expected it to be.

 

Eventually as the days past, hands ended up finding each other and legs tangled together, and a bed for one became a bed for two. 

 

But things weren’t perfect. Whoever said that sleeping next to someone eliminated nightmares was a trick ass bitch, and a liar, in Lance’s humble opinion. But it did help. 

 

-

 

When Keith woke up, Lance’s hand was wrapped so tightly around Keith’s wrist he could see his hand turning purple. 

 

Lance was a trembling shaking mass at the corner of the bed. He hid himself under the sheets like a dollar store ghost. 

 

“Lance?” Keith asked groggily, still within the tangles of sleep. 

 

“G-go back to s-sleep! I’m fine!” 

 

Keith pushed himself up to his elbows and deadpanned, “And I’m the Queen of Sheba.” 

 

“Just go back to bed, p-please!”

 

“Lance, come out from under the covers.” 

 

“Stop!” 

 

“I’ll literally drag you out. I’m not kidding.” 

 

“Fuck you!” 

 

“That’s it.”

 

Keith wrangled with the sheets, his anger burning through him like a familiar friend. 

 

Lance kicked him in the face in retaliation and fought like a cornered animal. Keith managed to pin his legs down, and ripped the sheets away from Lance’s face.

 

What he hadn’t expected was the tears. Lance sobbed, and sobbed and sobbed. He kept mumbling and the tears were everywhere and his face was soaked with snot and saline. 

 

“Lance-- I--”

 

Keith backed away from him. 

 

“I’m so tired of you, Keith! Please! I-I’m not forcing you to talk.”

 

“You sit here, stoic Mr. Hot Shot McPerfect, hiding behind displaced anger and bitterness! Just tell me you actually  _ feel  _ something! Tell me to my face. I’m tired of you pretending nothing’s wrong when I can hear you screaming every night and  _ wake up _ to you screaming every night.  _ You’re just so fucked up--”  _ Lance took a shuddering breath, “It doesn’t make you any less of a man to talk about it. Y-you’re gonna break if you keep this up. You’re--”  _ going to end up like Shiro--  _ was left unsaid but heard all the same. 

 

But what was Keith supposed to say? _ Everytime I close my eyes I see his decaying, dead body and swollen purple feet and his mouth wide open and his eyes wide open and hear him saying over and over and over again, “Everything will be alright.” But it isn’t it isn’t and I--  _ No. He couldn’t say that. 

 

Lance surged forwards, knocking Keith backwards. He wrapped his gangly limbs all around him and placed his head in the crook of Keith’s neck. 

 

“Please, I can’t lose you.  _ I can’t. I can’t--” _

 

_ “ _ I’m sorry-- fuck-- I’m  _ sorry.” _

 

-

 

Keith thought, had the circumstances been different, they would have been happy together. They would have been able to kiss, and laugh, and fuck, and do all those things people who love each other do. But everything is the way it is because everything was the way it was, and there is no changing it. 

 

But, he thought,  _ if only-- _

 

Keith was seventeen years old and his lips had never been kissed. But other parts of him had. 

He never thought it would come to this, but his quiet words led Lance in, and Lance’s slow, waning whispers kept Keith close. But Keith was afraid. He was afraid of him being too close, and opening himself up. He was afraid now that Shiro  fucking abandoned them was gone, any one of them was next. The problem was, Keith’s voice was Lance’s now. Keith’s whole being belonged to Lance. 

These overwhelming, ultraviolet feelings came in slow whispers. As they waxed and waned, Keith’s been subsumed piece by piece; with every touch he’s lost a part of himself. 

He’s felt Lance’s featherlight fingertips kiss his forehead, he’s felt Lance’s mouth along the column of his throat, he’s felt Lance’s skin between his thighs, in his mind, but even in his imagination, in some sense of strange mercy, his lips had never been touched. 

At this point, Keith didn’t know where his arms ended, or where his thoughts began, or where Lance started and Keith finished, and he wondered if he was more Lance than he was himself. 

The problem was, Keith was afraid he’d made up an image of Lance in his head. Between the neurons and synapses and the brainwaves, he didn’t know if Lance was real. He was so messed up. 

Keith realized that in his mind he’s blindfolded himself; he’s realized that to touch someone you couldn’t see was like making love to an idea. He’s realized these things and others among the memories of stolen, slow whispers, and among the reminiscences of sweet, selfish prayers.

Keith knew he needed to let Lance go, if he was going to be able to stand this war. He knew that he would probably end up dying in the end, and that Lance might too. He told himself it wasn’t worth it. He told himself he was perverted for wanting a teammate after his  _ brother _ just died. Shiro would be disappointed in him. Shiro would be disgusted in him if it was anyone else who had died. 

 

He felt so guilty. Shiro--Shiro fucking killed himself-- and here was Keith thinking about his  _ feelings _ .

 

But the problem was: in some strange sense of mercy, he couldn’t let Lance go. As they grew closer over time, and especially now, Keith came to depend on Lance to break his fall. He didn't know what he would do without Lance, now that Shiro was dead. 

 

Keith knows what it’s like to drown in these things we bury, these feelings that are so intrinsically human, that we can’t help but feel, but never want to.  

But the problem is: he’s felt Lance’s featherlight fingertips kiss his forehead, he’s felt Lance’s mouth along the column of his throat, he’s felt Lance’s skin between his thighs, in his mind, but no matter how tangible these feelings were, he knew he made them up inside his head, and that he would never let himself actually have them. Not with Shiro in pieces and the team in pieces and his heart in pieces and Lance in pieces, god-- 

Keith was seventeen years old and in some strange sense of mercy, his lips had never been kissed. But other parts of him had, at least, in a way.

 

As Keith sat on the floor of the bathroom, the ground wobbling beneath him and his head between his knees, he fought the urge to vomit. He didn’t know what he was going to do. He felt like he was burning alive. Keith told himself, when the room shook around him and his palms grew sweaty,  _ the world tilts on its axis and that’s why everything spins. _

 

_ - _

 

_ Keith felt a touch on his shoulder. He cried and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Shiro was in front of him, intangible but real. Shiro gripped his hand and pulled Keith with him.  _

 

_ Again, Keith was standing in the river of bodies. He was numb and unafraid this time. This time, he came as a friend. The rotting flesh did not scare me. Dead eyes did not frighten him. He swam through limbs and bones and blood, and it felt like he was making love to their memories. ‘Til death do us apart. _

 

_ They sang his name and he smiled. He began to sing with them. Why did he feel at home in a world of death and corpses? Shiro is by his side. But he wasn’t solid; his skin was translucent and glowing. His brother was a ghost.  _

 

_ “There are no flowers here, Keith.” Shiro sounded so sad. Keith tried to touch him, but his hand passed through him as if he was made of mist.  _

 

_ “Will you be my flower, Keith?” Shiro sounded like a child, “Something is coming. Someone is coming.”   _

 

_ “What’s coming? What’s coming, Shiro?” _

 

_ “Death, your Death. Even flowers die someday. I’m going to end up dying too.”  _

 

_ “Y-you’re already dead.”  _

 

_ “No, I still live on… in some form or another.”  _

 

_ “What do you mean? Shiro?” _

 

_ Keith felt cold. He felt the bodies wrap around him like a warm winter coat, or rolling fog, or an old lover’s tender embrace-- _

-

 

Keith woke up and walked to the Black Lion. 

 

It came to life, opened its great maw, and welcomed him.

 

When he entered and sat in pilot’s seat, he felt a rush of memories, and a presence he could only define as  _ Shiro-- _

 

The glove compartment opened, and inside a single letter was nestled.

 

-

_ Keith, _

 

_ Part of the problem is that I can’t reconcile what I’ve been taught with what I’ve become. _

 

_ I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know if I’m human.  _

 

_ I used to define myself in such simple terms. Man. Human. Leader. But now it’s so complicated. _

 

_ “Boy” tastes like metal shoved down unwilling throats like guts and glory and cars driving over hollowed out bones. “Boy” feels like lakes in dry eyes, like plastic knives and bandaids and soft hands that reached and wrapped arms around necks and said, “Boys don’t cry”. _

 

_ “Man” tastes like the leather  driver’s seat of the vehicle, like the hands who shoved metal down the throats. “Man” feels like droughts in wet eyes, like guns and bruises and unwilling hands that reached and wrapped rope around necks and said, “I can’t be a victim.” _

 

_ “Masculinity” feels like crying beneath blankets with moth holes,  _ _ like unwanted hands between thighs with the windows closed; _ _ it feels like expectation, like better than, like worthfulness, it feels like a facade of strength, like a two sided mirror that protects fragile bones. _

 

_ “Man” “masculinity” “boy” are words that were made to taste like want, made to feel like stoicism, aggression, and anger, like worthfulness, like better than, like “boys don’t cry” “I can’t be a victim” “man up.” _

 

_ I’m not even on earth but yet I’m affected by their gender roles--  _

 

_ And because of this I feel like I can’t feel things, but I feel them anyway, and I can’t deal with that either. I am not strong, anymore, Keith-- I can’t hold up to your image of me any longer.  _ _ Forgive me--  _ _ I hope by the end of this, you will understand why I have done this. _

 

_ To me there’s a certain degree of shamelessness in remembering my memories, before a certain sense of salinity settled in my veins, in my bones as they crackled within fire, lived and burned. _

 

_ To me there’s a certain degree of fearlessness tainted with shamefulness that forms their world, their eyes.  _ _ I pretend to not  _ _ You guys think I don’t remember hearing their voices  _ _ when they grunted into their fist, beneath their sheets, in their sleep, _ _ during the gladiator matches, outside my cell door.  _

 

_ To me there’s a certain degree of emotionlessness associated with their almost crocodile tears, in their memories they are always crying, whether it be from victory or defeat, but in mine, all I see is the 34 tiles I can count on the ceiling of my jail cell, in the sheets that drag me underneath. _

 

_ To me there is a certain degree of weightlessness, I feel within the hurricane of questions that define me, inside me. On mornings, and at nights, I try to be strong, for you, for the team. But when I am alone, I count and cry and swallow winds that pick up and scatter the dreams they stole, they hold in their fists. _

 

_ To me there is a certain degree of remorselessness in thinking of their hopelessness and hoping it’s sadder. To me there's a certain degree of hopefulness tainted with worthlessness, in knowing that I will now be free. _

 

_ Keith,  _

_ When it comes down to it, you’ll be better off without me. _

 

_ You have the team now. You have Lance. Don’t think I didn’t notice  _ that _ development. _

 

_ You can't miss these opportunities. You love and you are loved, and I want you to continue to feel deeply and infinitely and with your whole being. Don’t hide anymore, Keith.  _

 

_ You don’t need me anymore, you have so much beyond what I could have given you. As it stands, I am only holding you back.  _

 

_ I couldn’t have chosen a better leader for Voltron.  _

 

_ Please, do what I was unable to. I know you can.  _

 

_ Yours, _

_ Shiro _

 

\--

 

Lance reached out and touched his cheek. The feeling of his hands against Keith’s skin felt like the subtle warmth and tenderness of tealights. Calluses burned the surface of Lance’s palms, but Keith thought they might be the softest thing he’d ever touched. Lance’s smile was small, and a little sad, but like his spirit, strong and unwavering. 

 

“Hey Samurai, it’s time to move on.”

 

Lance dropped his hand, and they walked together to the bridge. As they walked, their pinky fingers brushed against each other. 

 

They took their places at the control room, and Allura prepared the Castle for flight. 

 

“To the future,” Lance said, looking out to the galaxies beyond the windows.

 

Keith’s breath hitched. 

 

“Yeah, to the future.”

 

\--

 

_ Diary, _

I  _ miss him, and his heart. I miss the hands he sewed from constellations and hardship, the smiles he wove within the cracks. I miss the taps on the shoulder and high fives at every corner. I miss my best friend. I miss that his hands can no longer hold. I miss him. You know he said to me, the day before, “Chin up, buttercup. everything will be alright.” and-- _

 

_ I remember the lines on his hands, and the times he would play fortune teller and palm reader, back when I was little.  _

 

_ “This one's for love,” he would say, tracing the thickest gorge between my thumb and forefinger. “Where's yours?” I would ask. He'd smile and say, “I don't need one.”  _

 

_ \-- _

 

“Why do you have to go?” Lance’s voice broke on the last word. He was red faced and out of breath. 

 

“I-I-” 

 

“No, it’s okay, I get it.”

 

“Lance, I just need time.” 

 

“I know, I do too. I’m just gonna miss you, Mullet.”

 

“Lance-- this isn’t about you, not really. I just can’t in good faith--” 

 

“Keith, stop. I love you. And I’m not ready either. I’m not sure when either of us will be. But I love you. And I’m willing to wait for that day.” 

 

“Lance, I-” 

 

“Now go, the Blade is calling. Break shit, save people. I’ll be here when you get back. Don’t do anything stupid, you ass.” 

 

“I love you, too. I-I’ll catch ya on the flip side.”

 

_ I’ll be here when you come back. _

 

_ - _

 

_ Fin _

**Author's Note:**

> hope it met expectations.  
> please comment <3
> 
> remember to stay safe.
> 
> # List Of International Suicide Hotlines
> 
> Argentina: +5402234930430
> 
> Australia: 131114
> 
> Austria: 017133374
> 
> Belgium: 106
> 
> Bosnia & Herzegovina: 080 05 03 05
> 
> Botswana: 3911270
> 
> Brazil: 212339191
> 
> Canada: 5147234000 (Montreal); 18662773553 (outside Montreal)
> 
> Croatia: 014833888
> 
> Denmark: +4570201201
> 
> Egypt: 7621602
> 
> Finland: 010 195 202
> 
> France: 0145394000
> 
> Germany: 08001810771
> 
> Holland: 09000767
> 
> Hong Kong: +852 2382 0000
> 
> Hungary: 116123
> 
> India: 8888817666
> 
> Ireland: +4408457909090
> 
> Italy: 800860022
> 
> Japan: +810352869090
> 
> Mexico: 5255102550
> 
> New Zealand: 045861048
> 
> Norway: +4781533300
> 
> Philippines: 028969191
> 
> Poland: 5270000
> 
> Russia: 0078202577577
> 
> Spain: 914590050
> 
> South Africa: 0514445691
> 
> Sweden: 46317112400
> 
> Switzerland: 143
> 
> United Kingdom: 08457909090
> 
> USA: 18002738255


End file.
